How to go to your grave without doing anal, by the Mash sex columnist

DON’T fancy it? Not sure why his junk feels entitled to demand yet another hole? If you’d rather let the other orifices do the heavy lifting, use these dodges: 

Draw up an extensive plan of action

The death of spontaneity is the death of sex and there’s nothing less spontaneous than a 13-point anal sex action plan. If the vigorous miming of an enema doesn’t do it, the lube budget and timing around bowel movements should. He’ll get as panicked as when he booked that flying lesson and it turned out it wasn’t like the videogames.


He talks about anal sex, you talk about Sucession. He talks about anal sex, you talk about the dog’s lazy eye and how cute he’d look in a patch. He talks about anal sex, you talk about a new street-food meze place. If he sees through the plan and says ‘Are you avoiding the subject of anal sex?’ ask if it’s normal for your shoe size to change.

Talk about your bowels a lot

Report back on every shit. Paint a full picture of your faecal life: clogged up or free-flowing, if he loves you, that man needs to know.The more vivid the images, the less he’ll associate your back passage with sex and cramming his little soldier up your fart box will be forgotten.

Don’t be swayed

You’re right to doubt his claims you’d love it. That’s not his motivation. And he’s overselling the G-spot idea: never found in vaginal intercourse, does he honestly that’s because it abandoned fanny and scuttled up your butt like a crab changing rockpools?

Imply it’s reciprocal

Line up the sex toys, from the ones he knew about to the rather more sizeable ones he definitely didn’t. Ask which one he’d like to start with. If he doesn’t seem keen, remind him it’s a predilection enjoyed by the second highest in the land so he should feel honoured.

Get older

There comes an age where nobody’s expecting you to be adventurous any more. Sure, losing your anal virginity in your 50s would make a great dinner party anecdote but you’re hardly going to be lying on your deathbed wishing you’d gone for it while you had the chance. Or maybe you are. Perhaps lube up and give it a bash just in case.

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Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

It sometimes feels like you’re the only Brexit voter who knew what they were voting for (more sewage).

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

I asked a mate if they wanted to see a picture of my unborn baby. “Ultrasound?” he asked. “Yeah he seems pretty cool,” I replied.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Jude the Obscured, more like. You drew dicks all over the pages of your copy.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Roses are red, violets are blue, ah shit this isn’t a poem, it’s a horoscope, isn’t it?

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

In the US they have Shake ’n Bake. In the UK we have Shake n’ Vac. This must have led to at least one fatality.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

People say having a puppy is like having a baby but you’d be pretty shocked if your wife had had a puppy.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

The whole of Generation Z is under the firm impression that Jamie Oliver used to cook naked, so don’t disabuse them.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

You met an actual German shepherd and he looked nothing like those dogs. Did shit in a hedge, though.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Sometimes you wish you could bottle lightning and sell it as an energy drink to teenage wankers.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

What point is there identifying all the birds in your garden when they just fly off?

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Weird day. Found an old wallet in my condom.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Buddhism’s expanded its categories. You can now be reincarnated as a vending machine.